


kissing contest

by stlngeucliffe



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Lots of kissing, Mentions of past F/F, References to Shakespeare, aka york loves too much, alcohol use, connie is forever amused at everyones antics, everyone is at various levels of drunk, foreign language speaking, guess i should put that in there i guess, maine is like a babysitter, mentions of polyamory, semi-unrequited nork/norkington, south is eternally angry, york is a wreck of a human being
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stlngeucliffe/pseuds/stlngeucliffe
Summary: After a mission gone kind of wrong, everyone digs up their hidden alcohols and unwind together in a nondescript commons room. York realizes too late that drunkenly challenging Carolina to anything is a bad idea.





	kissing contest

**Author's Note:**

> So, my final paper for a class for my major is to write fan fiction and analyze it (and part of me wishes I was making that up). This nightmare of emotions and kissing and alcohol is the end result. 
> 
> I sorta beta'd it myself, so if there are any glaring continuity flaws or grammar issues, pleeeease let me know. Hopefully this is the first of several Yorkalina fics I start posting, so enjoy this garbage fire of emotions that will eventually lead to more Yorkalina goodness.

York thinks he is a smart man.

He can crack locks in a couple of seconds (unless they’re those nasty holographic ones, those are still yikes on times), he can make a headshot with his eyes closed (not recommended), he knows his times tables and can maybe remember enough high school calculus to derive something, if needed.

But York has never said he is a wise man.

Which is why he’s three shots deep, swaying slightly on his feet, chatting amicably with Carolina without his heart doing that pitter-patter thing it does when she pins him in sparring, or saves his ass in the field, or when she lights up at any praise given by the Director. It’s just like it was in the old days, when he’d first met her and the chatter had been easy. Before she’d ever sparred against him, before she’d ever pinned him to the mat and hovered just over his face, a gleeful smirk gracing her sharp features, softening them just enough.

He is incredibly stupid, thinking that he can handle her.

She is fire, burning bright next to him. He is—some force of nature that contrasts her; his brain is muddled too far to really come up with some breath-taking analogy to compare them.  
Carolina sways on her feet with far less control than he’s ever seen; she is usually put together and graceful, every move full of purpose, but in this moment she is even drunker than he is. It’s certainly a sight to behold.

She’s pouting as they hover near the bottles of alcohol, towards the front of the cameraless commons room closest to their rooms. Her lips are scabbed, likely because of the humidity malfunction in her suit from this past mission and her tendency to bite her lips when thinking intently. They do look shiny, though, like coated freshly with chapstick. He’d bet his whole ass on cherry-flavored, because she seems like the type. He’d like to find out, and oh no, the urge hits him like a train, just to reach out and pull her lips to his, just something small and gentle. He’s not asking for the world. He’s not an ambitious guy.

But he knows she is, and a plan, however not wise it is, brews slowly in his head.

She’s chattering, her lips obviously looser with the bootleg ninety proof Maine had hidden away (“For the occasion,” he’d said, like he’d been saving it for a rainy day) and it buys him enough time to word out his plan nicely, without stammers and stutters and missed and/or forgotten words. “So,” he starts, and it sounds slurred. He pours himself another shot, ignoring the slight background noise of North giving Wash a noogie, of Florida’s jabbering at Maine, of Connie recording anything she can. She turns her full attention to him, and his brain shuts down, because all he can think about is how utterly gone he is for this woman.

“So?” She slurs back, a small smile gracing her face, like she knows he’s completely lost his train of thought. She probably knows, by now, how gone he is on her. How much he loves her.  
His mouth is about five seconds ahead of his brain this time. “I bet I can kiss more agents than you.”

To his credit, he doesn’t wince, but god he’s stupid, so goddamn stupid to think this was a good way to flirt with her. If anything, it showcases his inability to concentrate his love on one person.  
He is very bad at that, which is why he’d been trying to keep himself composed and not fall in love. That went over well.

But Carolina doesn’t scoff. She loves a good challenge, anything to assert her dominance over them all. She is the best, she sits at the top for a reason.

That reason? He doesn’t care to be at the top. He likes being under her.

Before he can let his mind wander with that, she cocks her hip slightly, one hand braced on it as she leans against the booze table. “Oh yeah?” She sounds incredulous, but there is laughter in the tone and he can’t help but know he’s picked the right person.

He nods, not sure why he’s still playing this card. In theory, he wouldn’t mind sharing her with the others, just as long as he was at least on equal footing with whomever else she was banging. “Florida and Wyoming are bonus points, because they’re old and gross.”

“Full mouth kisses?” She asks, obviously smoothing out any loopholes. If for her benefit or his disadvantage, he can’t tell.

“Three seconds.” That’s enough time, right? “One-Mississippi counting style.”

“You’re a monster,” she says, but she has the most beautiful grin on her face. “Time limit?” She pours another shot, downs it with grace.

That’s a fair question. “Nah. If they turn you down, you can’t go back for seconds. And only agents here.” Which was, lord, maybe six? Connie, South, North, Wash, Maine, Georgia, plus the old geezers. “The babies would be all too eager to smooch the boss.”

“It’s also way past their bedtimes.” She’s still grinning, it hasn’t faltered once. “Ready for me to kick your ass?”

_Yes._  “In your dreams.” He wants her to win, because he knows her face will light up and maybe in her drunken stupor she’ll do something that he can overanalyze while he tries to sleep.  
She wobbles off to harass Maine, someone who usually never really indulges in their antics, unless Wash initiates it, because everyone has a soft spot for him. He doubts she’d even be able to get a reciprocated hug, let alone a kiss.

York hits the easy targets first, plops down softly next to North and Wash on the couch. “So, I’ve got a bet going,” he starts, which invokes a chuckle from North and a long, world-weary sigh from Wash, who still has North’s arm wrapped around his throat.

York has kissed both of them; he’s an affectionate guy, always gets snuggly with someone and it’s usually his man-squad, as he calls them in his head. They’re never far from his side, and usually Carolina isn’t too far behind, if she’s behind them at all. North, Wash, and Carolina are his crew. They’re his immediate best friends. He would kiss them all.

“Oh, no,” North says, leaning his head away from Wash’s. “What do we have to do?” North knows the drill: help York win the bet, squeeze a favor out of him later, if necessary.

“Some innocent little smooches. Little three-second smooches.” Or longer, because he knows how North feels, strong and sturdy and much more consistent than he imagines Carolina is.

Wash groans, as though this is the worst news of his life. “Again?”

York can only shoot Wash a look. “Look, okay, last time got carried away—“ There’s a distant snort from Connie, even though that was her fault, for making them fruity cocktails that made him way too drunk, way too quick, “—but this is just, y’know.” He gestures vaguely in the distance, to his left, where Maine is patting Carolina’s head and she looks like she just chastised her for trying.

North clicks his tongue, and it sounds disappointed. He probably is. York knows he’s kinda terrible. “Being forward would’ve been easier.”

York knows this. But, as has been running through his head since the first shot, he knows he’s not always the brightest bulb. “Yeah,” he says flatly, because he knows his mistakes.  
But North will do this for him, and so will Wash. They love him, will drunkenly help him get the girl. He loves them too, in the exact same way, and it’s been the worst thing, gravitating between all three of them and ultimately picking the most difficult choice. Carolina will be the hardest to love, she has been the hardest to keep up with, but he knows the payoff will be worth it. More than worth it, really; he thinks that maybe one day, they’ll be able to move to a different project, move from agents to majors, maybe, and do something else. Make this a stepping stone.

He won’t leave North and Wash, though. They’ll always be there.

Kissing North is definitely comfortable, with just enough give and slobber and nose nudging. It lasts way more than three seconds, and York can hear Wash making gagging noises in front of him, so a middle finger is flipped up in his general direction. North pulls away, but his nose stays pressed lightly to York’s. It’s really gay. “Okay, Wash, you’re up,” North says, like they’re playing baseball and it’s his turn to bat. York doesn’t linger on that analogy.

When had North released Wash from the noogie-hold? York just now notices that his neck is free, and there’s a flurry of shifting and reaching, and Wash is kissing him, for a short one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, and not one second longer. Probably because has had one beer, maybe two at most. Wash is different, more hesitation and naivety to it. Less intimacy beyond the lips. A " _just friends who are drunk”_  kiss. York probably couldn’t handle much more " _more than friends”_  affection. “Good luck, buddy,” Wash tells him, sounding like he actually means it.

Like York needs it. He has luck in droves.

He takes a second, pretending that he wasn’t draped over North to kiss Wash, like his imagination wasn’t running wild with how that’d look and feel in other contexts. No, he’s focused on wobbling over to the girls, who’re sharing a beer and probably stories from basic. Swapping spit and stories.

South instantly crinkles her nose in disgust, cutting herself off from whatever sentence she’d been saying. “No one invited you,” she snaps.

Connie is quick to counter. “Hold on, he’s hammered. This might be funny, and worth a court martial to put on YouTube.”

He’d been expecting South’s hostility, but Connie’s faith in his ability to fuck up is touching. “Aw, thanks.”

South’s glare lessens, and Connie smiles. “So, what’s up?” Connie is probably his second-favorite girl on their team, because she’s sweet and she cares and is pretty set on avoiding the morally-gray if she can.

“I’m about to lose a bet,” he tells her. South scoffs, because in no way is this surprising, and Connie raises an eyebrow. “Well, tie a bet. Maybe win.” Out of the corner of his eye, Georgia is fleeing the room with a sort of reckless abandon, and Carolina sighs, stumbles a bit as she works her way over to North and Wash. “Would you lovely queer ladies like a York smooch?”

He should be expecting protests against the use of queer, but he’s also of the not-straight leanings, so he guesses that’s why he gets “depends,” and “Why the fuck should I?” to sound from them at the same time. Connie looks pensive, but South looks dangerously suspicious.

He knows he can win Connie over. She’s pretty easy to convince. South is a wild card. “It’s a favor that can be held over my head later.” He tries to use his suave salesman voice, but he’s too drunk to make it sound all that good.

“I have a whole backlog of favors from all of you boys,” Connie answers, looking smug, “but I guess one more can’t hurt.” She beckons him closer, and she’s taller than Carolina by a couple inches. He’s not used to being able to stand straight up for a kiss. She even tastes like smugness, and her fingers tangle through his hair and maybe it lasts a couple seconds longer than it should. Not a North kiss, but not a Wash kiss either. Like she wouldn’t mind an evening out with him.

“Gay,” South tells them after they break apart. “ _Wie schmeckt er?_ I haven’t kissed a dude in,” she pauses, pretends to think, then finally scoffs. “Eh, it hasn’t been long enough.”

Connie shrugs. “ _So wie, ähm,_ ” she pauses, “sorry, York, _so wie Abendessen und Wodka. Und dein Bruder._ ”

South narrows her eyes. York is lost. “ _Wie weißt du, wie mein Bruder schmecken?_ ” He wishes he’d known that he’d be stuck on a ship with too many European polyglots to count when he was in school. Connie’s smirk says a lot, though, so maybe he kind of understands. “ _Я хочу застрелйться._ Is there anyone my slut of a brother hasn’t fucked?” Is North actually that bad? Are they both cut of the same cloth of loving too much? York can’t really let this distract him from his goal.

“Never said we fucked,” Connie answers, which actually leaves more questions than answers. “Anyway, just kiss him so Carolina can come over and kiss us.” Connie shoots a pointed look at South, who grunts. “Either he wins, and Carolina gets knocked down a peg, or Carolina wins, and then you can tease him about being a loser. It’s a win-win for all of us.” There’s a look Connie gives him, full of knowing and understanding that he very much does not like. Since when did their close-combat get so good at reading people?

Oh, duh. She’s supposed to be able to do that. If she can anticipate an attack and read her opponent’s movements, she’s that much stronger.

South pretends to think. “Only because I think you’re more casually kissable than that porcupine, and because it’d be funny if you actually won.” South’s kiss is even less personable than Wash’s; hard and angled wrong and uncomfortable, and York is more than content for it to be over in exactly three seconds. “Ugh, gross. You’re prickly. Connie, what the fuck, you didn’t tell me he was pokey.”

Connie shrugs, because all South ever really did was complain. It’s easy to tune out at this point. She’s more focused on York, wearing a soft smile to show her support. “Are you going to try your luck with Maine?”

York takes in the room, where Carolina is curled on the couch, smugly and patiently waiting for him to finish with the girls. Maine is still under the mercy of Florida’s gabbing. He doesn’t think he’ll succeed at anything with Maine, and he’s at four, which is the most Carolina can get. He feels pretty safe, with all his kisses tucked away in his head. “Nah. I might get some more vodka.” Connie nods and punches his shoulder lightly. A good-luck testament.

York strolls back over to the makeshift bar and stumbles a bit over nothing. It’s still simple for him to pour a heaving amount of alcohol into the glass, adding what little orange juice there is left to his glass. There’s another glass next to his, this one shorter and fatter than his narrow, tall glass. All of their glassware is mismatched, either found in closets on the ship or thrifted from various planets when they dock for maintenance or shore leave. Maine has a whiskey glass set on a side table with a ring of nubs around it, Florida has a wine flute full of what York is assuming is bourbon. He zones out for a second, just taking in the atmosphere of Wash and North laughing, of Connie’s whispers and South’s rough accent of whatever fucking Eastern European language she’s speaking now, with Carolina lounging near them casually. She says something that sounds similar to the accent South’s using, and it takes no time at all for Connie to kiss her, just as fervently as she’d kissed York, what the fuck, that isn’t fair, whose side was she on?

He focuses on his mimosa, even if it is nearly midnight and they have to be up at 0530, who actually cares, it’s breakfast time somewhere in space, right? Is there a universal space time? It’d make sense, since all the different ships are from different planets, and they do time differently on all of those places, and since time is just—

“You took all the orange juice,” Carolina comments, sidling up to their weird bar-table-thing, taking the short, fat glass between her hands. “Gimme some.” She’s sloshed, definitely nearly blackout toasted, York has been there enough times in his short life that he knows the tells. It’ll be interesting to see if she gets up in time for drills at 0600.

He shakes his head. “Nope, no more happy juice for you,” he tells her, and she pouts again, leaning most of her weight against the table. “So, I got four,” he tells her, and she makes a face.

“I got four too,” she counters, “probably from the same people as you.” She pauses, her eyes closing briefly, and York wonders if she’s passed out, but she opens them a few seconds later. “We need a tiebreaker.”

She says it with such a seriousness and finality that she sounds sober as always, like they’d been sparring and they were four to four and had five minutes to clear the training room. “And how do you propose that?” He asks, because he doesn’t know how to stop. It should just stop, they don’t need to be kissing other people when they should be kissing each other, holding each other close when the nightmares are too close to home and the solar flares are too bright for them to sleep.

“Five,” she says smugly, and then her lips are on his, and it is the best kiss of the night, no doubt. She is soft, tastes so strongly of vodka, and he takes a second to congratulate himself on guessing correctly on chapstick, specifically of the cherry persuasion. One of her hands cups his jaw, the other cards through his hair, definitely snagging on miscellaneous knots he knows he has, but he’s so caught up in her kissing him that it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters in that moment beyond how warm she feels, how human and real she is. She’s perfect, the moment is perfect, but they are far from perfect because he hiccups halfway through. It’s the only thing reminding him that he’s not dreaming. She laughs, pulling away for a brief second while he collects himself to breathe again, and wow he really should be able to kiss and breathe at the same time. She looks so fantastically happy, so pleased and excited in the moment that they pause. That’s all he can take in, really, aside from the snorts coming from behind him from the kitty corner and from to his left, where Wash and North are likely snorting and exchanging money from bets.

She breaks again, grinning wildly, like she hasn’t felt this loose in ages. She probably hasn’t. “Should’ve kissed you first,” she tells him, and it meets her eyes, she’s so giddy and happy and nothing makes York happier. “Are you my prize for winning?”

There’s a thousand ways to take that. They could fuck. He’d love to. But they’re drunk, she’s hammered and likely won’t remember any of this in the morning, he hopes Connie did get a video of them making out, or her making out with someone, York doesn’t really care. Just proof that this happened. That he knows that this ever-dwindling night actually happened and wasn’t just a fever dream or a concussion-addled version of something else that happened. “I’ll give you a rain check,” he tells her, and it’s funny, because they’re in space. There’s no rain here, but he guesses it’s an old idiom that’ll stick around.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she tells him suddenly, and it sounds raw. “I wanted to kiss you sooner.” Her hand is lingering at his jaw, her thumb rubbing his cheek. He doesn’t want to go either, but they should. It’s late, too late for all of them to still be gabbing.

But he looks around, and it looks like everyone is cleaning up, gathering the motivation to get up and go to bed, full of miscellaneous alcohols. Maine comes up between them, a mumbled “excuse me” as he sadly stares at the nearly empty vodka bottle before upending it into his mouth. Carolina pouts at him, like he just kicked a puppy, and he shrugs. “You’ve had enough,” he tells her, pats her head gently, and takes the empty bottle with him as he disappears. Like a bigger, quieter version of North. Only North thinks it’s hilarious when York gets wasted and starts kissing everyone.

Everyone’s cleared out, as though as soon as there were drunk make-outs it was time to go to sleep. It was the middle of the week anyway. Maybe they should call it a day.

“York,” Carolina starts, “I don’t know where my legs are.” And she sounds so certain, but also her age, too. Not like how she usually sounds, at least thirty with a dozen years of service under her belt. No, she sounds twenty, like she should. “What do I do?” And she laughs, like this is no big deal, like she can reattach them if she needs to.

He feels a little more with it, less out of it than Carolina, and he’s pretty sure he can carry her back to… his room. It’s closer. Less walking that might get them hurt or in trouble. “Come on, it’s time for bed.” She waggles her eyebrows, and he sighs. “Not like that. Real sleep. Not ep—euphi—euphemistic.” It takes him a second to get the word from his mouth, but it does, and he feels pretty damn proud of that accomplishment. “I’ll carry you.”

She’s still leaning against the table like it’s a crutch. “I want a piggy-back ride.” It sounds like a demand, and it probably is, but he’s willing to do it for her anyway. He’s so whipped. It doesn’t matter anymore, he won’t even try to hide it. Everyone knows at this point. So slowly, ever so slowly, he crouches and spins on his heels, and she grabs onto his neck with the reckless abandon of a child. Something aches in his chest then, he can’t quite pinpoint it, but it’s there. And he stands, letting her dangle from the back of his neck for a couple seconds, letting her legs flail and her squeals of “York!” ring in his ears. He has to cherish this moment, because it feels like things will go south sooner than later, and who knows when he’ll get to hear her joyously squeal like that again. If he ever will.

But he has to focus on now, her arms around his neck, his arms locked around her thighs as he totes her down the hall, to the left, down that hall, turn right, and scan his thumb against the fingerprint reader to his door. She babbles at his ear, talking about how, once, she and South had been fuckbuddies, back in the very beginning, and he can’t help but scoff. This is what being enlisted was always sold to him as: good friends telling stories about their sex lives, with maybe some shooting, some murder, some death. Not rankings and competition and simulation.

He shakes his head, because he can’t focus on that. He has to focus on the good he’s got. He’s got loving friends and maybe a girlfriend and that’s all he could ask for. “Hey, Lina, babe.” She hums, presses a sloppy kiss to the crown of his head, before spluttering.

“Your hair tastes gross.”

He gels his hair. It’s one of his vanities, his hair. He likes it a lot. “Yeah, it does,” he tells her as he crouches down to make it through to doorway without bonking her head. A concussion and a hangover do not go well together. “I was just thinking—“

She cuts him off. “Me too. We’re like Romeo and Juliet.”

He blinks once, twice, as he sets her on his bed. “That wasn’t what I was thinking, but go on.” He can’t actually remember what he had been thinking.

She lays down, makes a content noise when he slides next to her, ribs to ribs. “We shouldn’t be together,” she says, and his heart sinks. “Because there’s no way my father would allow it.” This seems almost medieval, but he lets her talk. “And I care about what he thinks, but I really love you.” He wants this on tape. He’s so glad they’re in civilian clothes. He can feel the heat radiating from her skin, and she’s just as human as everyone says she isn’t. Her arm flops over her stomach, her fingers grazing his ribs. “I love having you as my second command. I shouldn’t care if he knows. But I do, and it’s stupid.” She laughs. “I’m very stupid.”

She’s not. She’s far from stupid. “No one has to know.” She laughs heartily, a mocking thing, and he remembers kissing her in front of everyone, like a starved man. “Okay, your father doesn’t have to know.” She laughs again, as though her father is an all-seeing deity. Maybe he is. He’s not quite sure where she’s from.

“Nothing’s that simple,” she tells him. “But there’s one simple thing I know.” She turns her head, and he turns his to meet her emerald eyes, so much softer than usual. “You’re a huge goofball and I’m so glad I met you.” And she reaches forward, kisses his nose.

It isn’t a perfect ending to a shitty, life-threatening mission. He’d fucked up some locks and alarms, she’d jammed her Magnum and Wash had almost gotten himself killed again. They’d both gorged too much, and the following morning he has a hangover from hell and she is puking her guts out through their morning PT jog, but he’d stayed behind and rubbed her back and kept pace with her, despite the glares the Director gave and the sympathetic looks the Counselor tried to hide. They aren’t perfect people. But they’re at the top, and have their moments of quiet companionship full of longing and wanting of _more_.

Which is pretty damn close to perfect, in his war-torn universe.

**Author's Note:**

> So, as to clarify that German and Russian:  
> Wie schmeckt er? - How's he taste?  
> So wie, ähm... so wie Abendessen und Wodka. Und dein Bruder. - Like, uh. Like dinner and vodka. And your brother.  
> Wie weißt du, wie mein Bruder schmecken? - How do you know what my brother tastes like?  
> Я хочу застрелйться. - I want to shoot myself. (shoutout to my professor for teaching me that)


End file.
